But Edward was thinking far bigger than BB ever dreamed.
Chapter Thirteen
The following day Edward charmed his way into Sir Ernest Lieberson’s office. As he had hoped, he was offered a job in the laboratories, pursuing the theories he had first begun at Cambridge.
Richard returned to London and Edward moved into a cheap hotel. It was imperative that he had no traceable association with BB. But, as promised, he kept in touch. He knew it was necessary, even though at times he could have done without the nightly calls. He worked all day, moving from mine to mine, making careful studies and collecting samples, filling his specimen bottles with soil and rock gradings. He travelled extensively, and his preparations were diligent in the extreme. It was vital now for Edward to have rough diamonds and gold. He needed samples of both in quite large quantities.
BB’s part in the plan began. He employed a group of kaffirs to rewire the fences on all his mines. Every mine they had was to look as if work were in progress. They would work on a turnaround system, in split groups, one day leaving only one boy on a site but with a piece of heavy machinery to make it look as though a lot was going on. It appeared that eight dormant mines were now being worked, which naturally stirred up interest in the local communities. The mines were many miles apart, and the news was left to spread slowly by itself.
Edward’s work was inspected, but the four scientists were doubtful of any beneficial outcome. However, Edward requested a month off to begin taking samples from as far afield as the Belgian Congo, Ghana, and the Ivory Coast. He wanted samples from as many ‘live’ mines as possible to counter-test with the dormant ones.
Edward was granted two months’ sabbatical, paid for by De Veer’s. He did not, as they presumed, begin work immediately, but searched around Pretoria for the haunts of local journalists. He became a regular visitor, sitting chatting and drinking with reporters in pubs and clubs, making it his job to get well acquainted. He was amused that all the bars he went into had ‘Men Only’ signs up, and no women were to be seen drinking.
The barman at the Night Light Club, Nkosi, proved an invaluable asset. Edward was looking for a very specific kind of journalist, and had begun to despair of finding one when Nkosi whispered to him that he should, if he had nothing better to do, come and meet a friend of his called Skye Duval.
Edward was waiting for Nkosi when the tiny bar closed, and they drove out of town on to a dirt track. They veered off, and Edward stared around him, trying to get his bearings. He began to feel uneasy, not knowing where he was, but eventually they stopped at a small shanty with lights streaming from every window, the threadbare curtains unable to prevent it. Loud music blared from the shack.
Nkosi tapped on the door and entered. It was closed behind them by a beautiful black girl who beckoned them into the shanty’s living room. Edward was surprised to see white men sitting with their arms around black girls. It was, of course, illegal to fraternize, and everyone stared at the door as Edward entered. Seeing Nkosi leading him in, they relaxed again, and the room was soon filled with the hubbub of their chatter.
Nkosi talked quietly with a fat-bellied man who sat with his arm around a very young black girl. The man had some information for sale and the pair of them slipped outside.
Skye Duval was the most handsome man Edward had ever set eyes on. He entered the room to a few ribald comments from the men, and he smiled. He was very tall – not as tall as Edward, but lanky so that he appeared taller. His hair was black and worn long, but it was well cut. His almond-shaped eyes were dark amber, his nose almost hooked, the wide cheeks and small mouth made the face strangely pretty yet arrogant. Skye had a dimple in his right cheek and a lopsided smile. He was stoned out of his mind, and he walked as if on air, a cigarette stuck in the corner of his sweet, girl’s mouth. Edward watched him closely as he kissed two of the girls, obviously a familiar customer of the house.
Skye caught the can of beer someone threw him and moved with hazy eyes through the lounge. He opened the beer, which sprayed all over his cream-coloured suit, but didn’t bother to wipe it away. He drank from the can while he surveyed the room. Edward met the eyes, glinting amber, tiger-like, which flicked over him, and Skye raised one finely arched eyebrow. He may appear drunk, thought Edward, but the man’s taking everything in, and no one enters or leaves the room without those strange eyes recording it.
Skye made his way over to Edward. ‘Well, you’re a strange face . . . Skye Duval . . . no, don’t get up, I’ll join you.’
Skye’s method of joining Edward was simply a slow, languid collapse on to the sofa next to him. His voice was very upper-class English, drawling, and Edward noticed a heavy signet ring on the small finger on his left hand.
‘So which are you here for, the news items or the broads?’
Edward estimated Duval could not be much older than himself, yet he seemed very worldly and confident.
‘I’m just passing through.’
‘Aren’t we all, but you were brought by the infamous Nkosi or whatever they call him. He usually drags in the most dreadful types, sometimes it’s hard to call the place home . . .’
‘Is this your house?’
Still lolling on the sofa, Duval turned his head. ‘You joking? . . . Christ, my shoes are crippling me, it’s the heat, makes the feet swell.’
Skye stared at his scuffed shoes, then caught a beer can tossed to him by one of the black girls. It hissed as he pulled the ring off and guzzled the beer, spilling it over his clothes again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I am a reporter, Johannesburg Sunday Express, don’t suppose you’ve got a scoop for me? If I don’t send them something soon, I’ll be out of a job. You’re English, aren’t you? Where are you from?’
Edward gave him Allard Simpson’s address, and Skye laid his slim arm along the back of the sofa. ‘Kensington? Know it well, my family lives in Cadogan Place. What are you then, a student?’
‘I was, at Cambridge. Now I’m just travelling.’
‘Travelling, are we? Oh God, I’m buggered. I’ve got to get out of this dump, it’s driving me nuts . . . You drive, Cambridge fella?’
Edward put his beer can down and Skye promptly picked it up and drained it. He burped, then flung an arm round Edward’s shoulder. ‘We English should stick together – you got any money? Show you a nice time, or you can show me . . . Ha, ha, ha . . .’
Skye got into the driving seat once they were outside the bungalow, and drove so recklessly that Edward hung on for dear life. They went on a club crawl that made Skye so foul-tempered he got himself thrown out of the last one.
‘Well, that’s that for the night, another day passed, another day gone that I won’t see again.’
He drove around the town, then headed out for his own place. He didn’t seem interested in where Edward lived, or even if Edward wanted to go with him. He simply accepted that he was there.
Inside Skye’s house Edward tried to talk sense to him, but he was blasted out by Purcell, played so loudly it nearly shattered his eardrums. Skye passed out on the sofa and Edward looked around the place. He moved quietly into the bedroom, saw the unmade bed, the clothes strewn around. At the side of the bed was a photograph of a very beautiful girl, a blonde, standing on a beach and shading her eyes to look at the camera.
Skye appeared behind Edward. He had taken off his shoes and Edward hadn’t even heard him walk in. ‘Trouble is, I’m sick of this fucking country, they want you to act as spy, every fucker is spying on everyone else . . .’ He flopped down on the bed, rolled over. ‘You know, I did this article on travelling across the Sahara on camels, with my friend . . . He was my friend, understand, really close friend. When we got back, they all loved the story . . . but it wasn’t enough . . . editors want blood, prefer shit like “Suspect I observed yesterday has a pen friend in Moscow and he collects Russian stamps. I think he could be a Communist.” You believe that kind of crap? An’ I’ll tell you something else. Every one of those guys you saw
tonight screwing the knickers off the little black whores – even the most liberal Afrikaner – if approached by the security branch and asked to spy would. Bastards leak rumours if you don’t spy, and that fucks you over, and the police will destroy you anyway even if you do spy. There’s no chance in this shit-hole of not being a goddamn sodding spy.’
Edward, trying hard to decipher what on earth Skye was talking about, asked him if he was a spy. Skye turned on him in a fury. ‘Course I’m a fucking spy you arsehole, what in Christ’s name do you think I’ve been talking about – I fucked him over, didn’t I?’
He swayed drunkenly in front of Edward and shouted, ‘I’m talking about my mate, the one that came on the caravan with me, I’m talking about him.’ He slumped into a chair, and his lower lip trembled . . . ‘Like a bear he was, Cambridge blue, rugger forward, maybe a prop, I dunno.’
He gulped at his drink and lay back closing his eyes.
‘They put pressure on him, secret police, he told them to sod off, so they leaked a rumour that the poor son of a bitch was a spy. They framed him, and to increase the rumour they put a lot of pressure on his black friends; so the poor sucker was running to black and white trying to make them believe he was straight. You know what he did? He walked into the fucking lab, man, into the photographer’s darkroom, and gulped down a mugful of chemical fixer. They said it was suicide . . . some bloody suicide.’ His face streamed with tears . . . and he finished his drink, throwing the glass at the wall.
Edward made sympathetic noises and watched as Skye stripped off his clothes. He was down to baggy white underwear when he turned to Edward. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Into bed, prick.’
Edward backed off fast and said, very embarrassed, that he was straight.
‘Why on earth have you stuck like glue to my side all night long if you’re not queer? Isn’t it obvious? Aren’t I obvious?’
Edward sat in a chair by the chaotic dressing table while Skye propped himself up in his bed. He lit a cigarette and lay back on the pillows. ‘Ahhhh, deary me, my sob stories usually get the boys into bed with me. Don’t you just love their tight black bums? I just die for them . . . did very well tonight, see, real tears. Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell the truth, there again maybe I won’t . . . Eh? You want some coffee, you able to cope with that percolator thing in the kitchen? If so, I’d adore a cup.’
As Edward got up to go into the kitchen, he again caught sight of the photograph of the beautiful blonde. ‘Who’s the girl? She’s lovely.’
Skye picked up the picture and snuggled down under the bedclothes. When Edward came back with only half the percolator, the other half, sadly, missing, Skye was fast asleep with the photograph held tightly in his arms. For a moment Edward thought he resembled an innocent child. As he crept back to the door, it creaked open, and he winced, hoping the sound had not woken Skye . . . it hadn’t, his body remained still deep in a drunken sleep.
Edward wandered around the messy house. He searched all the rooms thoroughly. There were books piled in heaps and on every available surface. The bookcases were crammed full. Many were on politics and there were plays from every period. Several shelves were devoted to film-making and there were stacks of movie magazines. Mr Duval was a complex character . . . Edward also reckoned he was a dangerous one. Why did he tell him the long elaborate story about his friend’s suicide? To get him into bed, or to alleviate his own guilt? Edward was more than sure Skye Duval must have assisted if not organized the frame-up that caused his friend’s death. He began to read a folder of press cuttings relating to Skye’s articles. They made fascinating reading and were well if rather flamboyantly written. He replaced the folder and searched the drawers, finding a lot of clothes with good labels that were badly in need of washing. The wardrobe contained many suits in similar condition, and to Edward’s surprise a set of women’s expensive clothes. Everything was muddled, haphazard. In a desk drawer Edward found so many bills that he gasped. Skye owed money everywhere. His bank statements were old and torn, his entire overdraft facility having been exhausted months ago.
The record collection was mostly classical, a few big jazz bands, Swing along with Sammy Kaye, Horace Heights and his Musical Nights, Louis ‘Satchmo’ Armstrong and Billie Holiday plus a few blues singers, some German records and a couple of recordings of black pop groups. They were dusty, many without covers or in the wrong ones. Edward was about to stroll out to the verandah when he found another bunch of folders. These contained photographs of Skye in flowing robes and the story of the trek across the Sahara in manuscript form. Looking through the photographs Edward again got the impression that Skye was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen.
A car drew up outside and Edward walked out to the dark verandah. The small Volkswagen, which a young black boy was driving, parked and he saw a very attractive white girl sitting in the back seat. The boy got out and it looked as though he was carrying something for the woman, falling into step behind her as they entered the house. They walked in silence, and then Edward heard her laughter, the lower tones of the boy. At first he had presumed him to be the girl’s servant, but there was familiarity in that laughter. They did not enter the lounge, but went straight to the spare bedroom and closed the door.
Edward was unsure if he should make some noise to let them know he was in the house. He knew they would be arrested if discovered. Any romance across the colour line was illegal in South Africa, the land of so-called racial purity. If they had ever shown in public that they were on equal terms they would have been arrested immediately. Skye would also be charged if it were discovered that he allowed his home to be used by them.
Edward waited for a while and then lay on the sofa, eventually dozing off.
Around dawn, Edward was woken by the sound of the lounge door opening. Skye entered the room. ‘Christ, are you still here? I thought you’d have gone. Do you want some wine? It’s chilled in the kitchen.’
When he returned with the wine, Skye said abruptly, ‘Well, what do you want? You’ve certainly waited long enough.’
Edward noticed the change immediately – Skye’s lisp had disappeared, and he seemed tired. Edward detailed his plan, but the only indication that Skye was listening was the constant twitching of his foot. When Edward finished, Skye set his wine glass down carefully and lit a cigarette from a half-smoked butt. He gave Edward a lopsided grin, and his lisp returned. ‘My, my, you have been busy. And, well, what can I say? It’s certainly interesting.’ He leaned back in his chair, his foot still twitching and getting on Edward’s nerves. Again he grinned, but this time it was more like a smirk. ‘How old are you, my Cambridge friend?’
Edward added a few years and said he was twenty-six. Skye raised his eyebrows. ‘Same as myself . . . you look younger, but there again, perhaps not. Be a good fellow and bring the bottle, will you?’
Skye’s eyes were shrewd and watchful. He picked up the telephone and dialled, and Edward came back in time to hear him speaking. His heart lurched – Skye’s voice was sly and his lisp was obvious. He was rocking back and forth in his chair. ‘I may have something for you, but, you bitch, I want my passport . . . Yeth, yeth, yeth, fair exchange.’
He removed the bottle from Edward’s hand and poured for himself. He did not look at Edward as he spoke. ‘About this offer – you’re on, it will also help me out of a rather nasty situation – not merely financial. Well, I think you overheard – my passport is being, shall we say, “held”, against my will. It’s rather debilitating to say the least.’
Skye drank most of the bottle of wine as he told Edward that ever since he had arrived in South Africa he had loathed and detested apartheid. He had broken every rule in the book, hating how the rich whites lived. He had stayed mostly in black townships, knowing he was breaking the law, for to enter a black area a white must first obtain a special permit and he had never bothered. He had, therefore, been under the watchful eyes of the South Africa security police, and was listed as an ‘undesirable
alien’.
‘I was ordered to leave South Africa within seven days, that was three days ago. I have had to do certain things to be able to remain here, like retrieve my passport from the police.’
Edward asked why he wanted to stay so badly if he hated the country so much. Skye laughed, but it was a humourless, bitter laugh. ‘Because, old chap, I was born here. My mother took me to England on a false passport when I was a baby, helped by a certain group of people, and unwittingly I returned here, I wanted to become a reporter so I ingratiated myself with the inner sanctum of the Pretoria secret police. It was easy enough – as I told you, I just betrayed my friends . . . Rather good at that – in fact, fucking marvellous.’
Edward had noticed the Volkswagen from the previous night had already departed. He began to feel uneasy. He looked at Skye, puzzled, and asked why he didn’t go to the British Consul if he was a British subject. Skye stared at him. ‘Someone – a woman named Julia – also has my birth certificate, so I can’t go. I’m trapped here until I get it back.’
Edward told him he could send away to Somerset House, they would forward a copy of his birth certificate. Skye shook his head at Edward’s stupidity and spoke coldly, quietly. ‘I’m black, you stupid bastard. My father was black, a political embarrassment, he was one of the highest members of the banned African National Congress . . .’
Edward realized that Skye was an even more fortunate find than he had believed possible.
‘My mother was very young, her family dripping with fucking coalmines, and she got herself knocked up by a bloody black houseboy. Needless to say, I was kept very much in the dark, haw haw haw, but I was well educated and although I was shipped about somewhat, things weren’t too bad. Anyway, she got herself married, and, naturally, the husband doesn’t have the slightest knowledge of moi.’ He fell silent for a moment, sipping his wine.
Edward noticed the foot-twitching had stopped, and Skye appeared very still. He had a haunted look, and he was distant, but he continued. ‘So, buddy boy, that’s Skye Duval for you. Now you know – I have entrusted you with my life.’
The Talisman Page 31